


As Hidden by Clear Waters

by Supersophieuh



Series: Of Truths and Lies [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: And Of Course - Freeform, Angst, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt Illya, Illya is angry like 75pc of the time, Injury, Light Angst, M/M, Mention of blood, Mission Fic, Protective Illya, Sharing a Bed, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple, also I am STILL LOOKING FOR A BETA so don't hesitate to contact me if you feel like it:), and of course they don't know they love each other, but like, but still some moves, no actual smut, or do they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-25 03:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersophieuh/pseuds/Supersophieuh
Summary: An undercover mission. Another one. New identities and new roles to play. There's nothing new there and, sure, they know the job. But, damn, Illya really doesn't like this one...





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my first TMFU fic. Hope you'll like it:) *nervous shaking*

“Maybe you should hold my hand.”

Napoleon shot him a strange look. Illya decided he didn’t like it.

“Under the table,” he added, since it seemed necessary to specify.

Napoleon’s posture did not change in the slightest. He stared at him for a few more seconds before he deigned to open his mouth.

“That wouldn’t be very discreet. We are in a public place,” he commented. His comportment got on Illya’s nerves . He felt compelled to answer.

“Maybe we are not the kind of couple that is ‘discreet’. Maybe the public attention and disapproval makes us thrilled. Maybe we should kiss on the mouth in front of all the customers of this café!”   

Napoleon smiled, but he was not amused. He put down the menu he had been contemplating for a good five minutes, in spite of the fact that both of them had already ordered. Was he appreciating the selection of drinks, or was he simply trying to give himself some composure? Their contact was late. “I highly doubt this would be the kind of thinks we’d find appropriate.” He turned away from Illya to report his attention to the entrance door. “Involved as we are in criminal activities, we probably do not wish to stand out.”

He marked a pause as the door opened and an elderly man entered the room. Only when he was seated at the bar, meters away from their table, did he go on talking, his tone impeccably neutral. “And I don’t think ‘under the table’ can be considered an essential characteristic. Either the gesture is perfectly hidden, making it useless, or it is visible enough for our man – and therefore an inopportune audience – to witness it. Unless we are _so_ desperate that we can’t resolve ourselves to wait for a few hours?”

Illya didn’t say anything. He didn’t like this mission and had no desire to dwell on the subject. Not that he did not approve of the objective itself –save the world from some crazy megalomaniac can never be a bad thing. It was all that ‘acting’ part he had a problem with. It has always been Napoleon’s domain rather than his.

Several weeks ago, Waverly had called the three of them in his office, Gaby, Napoleon and him. They had listened while he had exposed what would be awaited from them. A guy named ‘Tate’ had planned to steal the codes and protocols of early-warning American satellites, giving himself the power to simulate or dissimulate the launching of any soviet missile. He had therefore required the services of an infamous outlaw couple, specialized in burglary and bomb disposal. Couple that would be replaced in effect by an U.N.C.L.E. duo (with blessings from both the CIA and the KGB), that should perform their roles long enough for Tate’s accomplices to be identified.

Gaby had then naturally turned towards Napoleon, a smug smile on her face.  “Seems like you are now my new fiancé, Mister Solo…” Further instructions from their superior should prove her wrong though. “Not exactly,” he had rectified. “This time, Miss Teller will back the team up whereas Misters Solo and Kuryakin will take on the identities of Misters Cooper and Serafin.”

Mr&Mr Cooper and Serafin, first names unpredictable and nationalities unknown, had, as luck would have it, never met Tate face to face. Unfortunately, if Tate had very little information about them at his disposal, so did U.N.C.L.E. The couple they had hoped they could interrogate had died in the middle of their arrest. As Waverly suggested, they’d have to “use their imagination”.

The door opened again. The person that walked inside scanned briefly his surroundings before heading without hesitation for the small table occupied by Illya and Napoleon and sitting in front of them.

He was dark-haired, thin, middle-aged and absolutely insignificant. He called himself ‘Larry’. It was their second meeting and, once again, Illya caught himself thinking that the function of liaison officer fitted him extremely well. He greeted them with a nod, gestured for the waiter to come and ordered a brandy.

A few sips later, and after having enquired about their stay at Fort Lauderdale, he turned to the matter at hand.

News was good and everything was arranged. As soon as the following day, 10 AM, a vehicle would be waiting for them a few streets away and lead them to his “boss’s dwelling” so that they’ll be able to “do business together”. Which should mean that they had passed the preliminary test – responding the expectations inherent to their profiles – and that Mr. Tate considered them ‘sufficiently not suspect’ to allow them inside his lair. Illya asked himself what his reaction would be if he learned that several governments already knew the location of his ‘secret base’.

Of course he did not utter a word about it and cordially shook their interlocutor’s hand before he and Napoleon took their leave.                                                                      

 ---

 

They took a walk through the city and had supper in an Italian restaurant, spotted by Napoleon, before they went back to their hotel, seemingly for the last time. Unsure of which option to pick, they had booked individual bedrooms, but equipped with a communicating door. An acceptable compromise they had decided.

After he had made sure that the staff – as well as any other visitors – had respected their wish not to be disturbed, Illya joined his partner in the next room.

“Everything’s alright?”

Napoleon acquiesced.  He pointed at the door leading to the hallway, stating that “no one had walked through it” in their absence. Illya didn’t ask for more details; his methods of certification had already proven themselves in the past. “What about your side?”

“Same.”

That was a relief. No intrusion meant they could spare themselves the chore of a new and meticulous search in order to reveal potential microphones.  Napoleon gave him a large grin. “Good. We can talk freely then”. A precious luxury they may not be allowed again before a long time. It was the moment to settle the last details, to exchange their lasts impressions. “Things have been going quite nicely, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” said Illya with no enthusiasm. He even let out a sight before adding: “Now all we need to do is jump right into the tiger’s mouth.”

His partner’s smile made way for a much serious expression. “Peril…,” he began. He was not familiar with the slight hesitation that followed. “Tell me if I’m mistaken but I feel like you have some…reserve regarding this mission…”

“No, I…” Illya sighed once again, to let out part of his frustration as well as to break the tension that had somehow sneaked its way between the two agents. He had been unnecessarily irritated lately, he himself was aware of it. “I only want it to be over as quickly as possible, that's all.”

For a split second, something surfaced in Napoleon’s eyes. Had he hurt him? The emotion had been repressed as soon as it had appeared. Illya bit his tongue. Their partnership was relatively new and potentially fragile. He didn’t want to give the American the impression that he didn’t want to work with him. Not seriously. Yet, unable to find a way to say it, he kept his lips closed.

“Well, That's what we're here for: a job done fast and well! “  That remark was a bit idle, but pronounced with a perfect smile once more plastered on the other agent’s face. Illya was grateful he didn’t take on the opportunity to ask for another ‘round of review’ and proceed to have them reel off the constructed knowledge of their ‘shared life’ once again.  The common background they had carefully built was for sure fixed in their respective memories by now. His next declaration did however not please him either.

“And, Sergej, when we’ll be at the base…” ‘Sergej’ was his brand new first name, just like ‘Niles’ was Napoleon’s. Niles Cooper and Sergej Serafin. They had been practicing using them exclusively for about a week. “I think you are right, we should probably modify our comportment. Those people are expecting to meet a couple, and I don’t see any reason we’d have to hide. We are not supposed to fear them or their judgement. I…this will probably be the moment to get a bit more…tactile. You could…regularly hold my hand?”

Strangely, that last sentence, graciously accompanied by a wink and, without a doubt, supposed to lighten the mood, had been a punch in Illya’s chest. A disproportionate wave of anger rose in his body and clenched his jaws.  “I suppose you are right,” he articulated coldly.

As if to make things even more complicated, Napoleon appeared to sincerely regret his last words. “Sorry Peril, I shouldn’t have. I didn’t want to – “

“No, it’s me,” he cut him off. “It’s that mission…” Yes, there was definitely something about the mission annoying him, and he was not in the mood to expand on it this evening. ”Goodnight.” And without further ceremonials, he got back to his own bedroom as soon as his partner had reciprocated the salutation.

The door closed, he sat on the bed and shut his eyes. The mattress was comfortable and the hotel a quality one. What was wrong with him?

The American and he had indubitably made progress together. Things had changed a lot since their first meeting. Since…

Illya grimaced and pushed the insidious thought away. ‘ _Since you betrayed your country for him._ ’  It wasn’t the case and he refused to be a traitor. That disk was a threat more than an opportunity. Its utilization would most certainly have led to the end of the world. Of both their worlds. Still he _was_ happy that Napoleon had survived.

So why couldn’t he help but continuously be looking for a fight? And not in a playful or competitive way, but with bitterness and asperity?

And, worst of all, how could he commit so many mistakes? Only small, harmless ones until now, like that stupid suggestion this afternoon. But it was not the right time to demonstrate poor judgement; their survival would soon depend on their reactions. Also, that kind of blunder was simply unacceptable coming from a spy!

Laboriously, he got up and headed for the bathroom. A shower and a good night of rest would be much appreciated; the packing could wait for the next morning. He tried to raise his morale with the only obvious plus side of their future situation: once in that criminal ultra-secret base, he wouldn’t have to worry about concealing his accent anymore (a real bother throughout every US mission). That was good news. Because there had to be some.

 ---

 

The morning of their departure had been very calm. They had finished packing quite quickly – it had been specifically requested for them to travel light, “all they could need” for a convenient sojourn would already be waiting for them on the spot. They were thus only carrying a few clothes and, of course, their working tools.

Larry had handed them a plump bag full of cash on the day they had met, so as to give them time to count the bills and to verify their authenticity. Almost all of the money had been left at the bank, but they still had plenty to pay for the high ranking hotel room and have a last royal breakfast.

The bread was good, fruits fresh and the coffee acceptable. But what really made the meal enjoyable was the young woman seated a few tables away. Arrived alone at the hotel, Gaby had quickly befriended other guests and was now happily chatting with them. She discreetly exchanged a look with Illya, a small smile on her lips. It was such a breath of fresh air knowing she was there, being able to count on someone to protect their backs, and the tall Russian appreciated it at its fair value. Gaby would leave the place sometime after her colleagues and would follow them from afar. Informed about their destination already, she wouldn’t even have to mind about keeping them into view.

A bit more than an hour later, at the given address, a car was waiting for them, right on time.

“Misters Cooper and Serafin?” enquired a cap wearing driver. Their identities confirmed, he invited them to take place on the backseats and to begin the journey.  He first led them across the city, then, progressively, left populated areas behind to wander in the middle of nature. The ended up driving on a straight road that ran alongside deep blue seawaters.  Something like two hours after their departure, they came to a stop near a small and visibly rarely visited landing stage.

The simplicity of the installations did not prepare the visitors to the modernity of the moored embarkations. Beyond a well profiled little speedboat, a submarine was tied up at the rear. Of reduced size and with its round lines, it didn’t look designed for fighting, but should make a discreet and efficient means of transport. The opened hatchway and the man leaning against the turret indicated this would be the one they’d use. Less formal than the driver, the captain threw his cigarette in the sea while straightening up his posture and gestured them to follow him inside.

 ---

 

Their destination was a small island of the Pacific Ocean, somewhere North-East from Florida. It didn’t take any less than six hours for them to reach it. Six long hours filled with aching muscles and inner rummaging about submarines ceiling heights. This one in particular seemed outstandingly low to Illya.

The ballasts were finally emptied and the engine surfaced off the coast of a lonely islet, enhanced against a late afternoon sky. By the hatchway, made open to let some fresh air in, the two agents could observe it at leisure during the berthing manœuvre. Of small size, it had vaguely the shape of a crescent, whose large inner curve drew the outline of a bay. A rich, tropical vegetation covered its core, bordered by white sandy beaches, themselves surrounded by turquoise waters; truly an idyllic scenery.  Right in front of them, a wooden house, yellow and well preserved, faced a modest ‘T’ shaped pier. That was where they set foot on land.

The house, too narrowed to contain Tate’s installations, was not their final target. It merely served as a shelter for the people responsible for the maintenance of the ‘harbour’ and its security.

The base itself was something else, entirely.

All the available facts had been given to them on the day of their ‘preparatory briefing”. The reality was even more impressive, despite the fact that most of the structure was barely perceptible from the surface, a darker spot below the waves.

The “Intervention and Coordination Base 1”, a.k.a. “ICB1” as Tate and his men liked to call it, was a big transparent bubble, flattened at the top, and immersed in the middle of the bay. Held in place by a massive steel pylon at its foundation, it had to be sunken quite deeply – deeper that one would expect seeing it this close from shore at least – since the water, although limpid, did not allow one to distinguish its contours nor to evaluate its size. Useful to escape reconnaissance planes, but Illya suspected that the purpose of this construction was purely esthetic.

A long tube of glass escaped from the station and peaked out of the water. A single elevator, with circular walls, slid through it, enabling access to the base. Its external gateway was connected to an elegant footbridge, transparent too, that launched itself above the waters from the beach and should be no less than 400 meters long. Without guardrail, it was supported every 5 or 6 meters by silver pillars, firmly sunken in the seabed.

Those impressive installations, combined to the specialization of every intermediary they had met up to now, made Illya wonder how so many dangerous megalomaniacs could end up so ridiculously rich. Well, of course, it was probably through some dangerously dirty lucrative activities.

A new henchman, wearing a red shirt and white pants, welcomed them with an astonishing economy of words and guided them towards the footbridge. He ceremoniously preceded them on it and came to a halt when the extremity of the tube stood before them. He removed a long necklace from his neck and inserted the key hanging from it in the tiny gap provided. The interstice was almost invisible and the key had to be essential to the mechanism. Illya noted and registered that information somewhere in his brain.

The mobile cylinder didn’t keep them waiting very long. A section of the tubular wall moved aside to grant them way. The descent, surprisingly fast, was in itself quite pleasant.  The depth were closing in on them, filtering the last rays of sun. Curious fishes carefully circled the tube or precipitately swam away with the swing of a fin, surprised as they passed by. Illya felt his heartbeat rate increase. This time, they really where ‘entering the tiger’s mouth’.

About 30 seconds after the descent had started, they had reached the lower extremity of the transparent duct. They discovered that it did not come out on the top of the bubble but at half its height, on the side. As they were stabilizing, they observed with trained eyes the welcoming committee waiting for them in the adjacent room. Their number was bit excessive (around 10 people were present) but no sign of animosity was to be seen. Which, of course, didn’t mean much.

Another turn of the key, inside the cubicle, was necessary to open the door. Once again, the man with the red shirt preceded them in the room. Napoleon and Illya were ready to follow suit when a burst of gunfire broke out, directed directly at them.

Their reflexes took over and they threw themselves at the curved walls, away from the doorway that allowed the bullets in. The door closed automatically and Illya realized they had done exactly what had been expected from them: they were trapped.

From tiny holes in the glass, gas began to seep in with a shrill whistling. He exchanged a glance with his partner as a whitish smoke filled the space, turning everything into darkness.

 ---

 

When Illya awoke, he was tied up. Tied up and sitting. A restraint chair held his chest, his wrists and his ankles. The world was slowly becoming clearer and his memory unfolded. They had been uncovered. He could not point out what had betrayed them, and U.N.C.L.E. had assured them Tate could not suspect the swapping in any way.

He rapidly studied his field of vision, looking for Napoleon. He spotted him a few feet away, at the top of a short stair that separated the room in two sections. The American was emerging as well and that relieved him a bit.

More worrying were the armed guards watching them closely – two for each of them, plus one at every door, making them six. In front of Illya, a metallic grey desk was occupied by a chestnut haired man, in his forties, wearing a night blue two pieces suit. Tate, according to the descriptions he had been given. His expression was hard and his lips squeezed.

“Goodnight, Mister ‘Serafin’.’’The way he pronounced the name showed just how much credit he gave them. With Tate addressing him directly, Illya knew it was his job to answer.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, feigning sincere indignation. “I thought we had an agreement!” Incidentally, the deception should have been discovered somewhat recently; otherwise, what could be the meaning of his generous advance? Except if he reckoned the torture of his enemies was worth the amount of money….

“I indeed concluded an agreement with people known as ‘Cooper’ and ‘Serafin’. But we both know that isn’t you…”

While talking, Illya assessed their options. Six men was a lot, even if the both of them could break free at the same time. And they wouldn’t have a chance without surprise effect. This was not even taking the elevator into account. “You are crazy! Who else could it be!?”

Tate flapped his tongue with a disappointed expression. “I had hoped you could have enlightened me. To endorse their identities, you probably had to learn to know them better than I do.” He stood up and rested his palms on the desk. “I suppose you have no intention of telling who you are working for?”

“We do not work for anybody! Anybody but ourselves! We always did, that...that is why you hired us!!” He was gradually replacing the anger in his tone with a more anxious, high pitched accent.

“Sorry but I have no time to lo lose.” Turning towards Napoleon, Tate gestured to one of his guards. The barrel of a gun was pressed against the American’s temple. Something very cold invaded Illya’s chest.

“No, wait!” No one was paying attention to him. The guard put his hand on the trigger. “No!” He was screaming now, but to no avail. Struggling in his seat was equally vain. Briefly, he was tempted to bargain the name of their employer. But it wouldn’t have changed a thing. They would only be tortured before being killed. “Don’t!”

Tate looked at him straight in the eyes and wrinkled his forehead. “I do not like to be taken for a fool.” He didn’t turn away to give the next order. “Do it Georges.”

Illya’s widened eyes searched for Napoleon’s. He could only see sadness and resignation in them. “No! Stop it!” There was no breath left in him. Yet he didn’t stop screaming. His right handcuff was about to give in, but it wouldn’t be enough. “Don’t!!!”

He was so busy striving he did not realize the shot should have been fired long ago. Tate snapped him out of his trance when he turned one more time to give a counter-order.  “That’s ok Georges, you can stop. I am convinced.” Said Georges moved the barrel away from the unharmed American’s head.

Illya was breathing again, but he had no idea why. He examined the man in front of him with suspicion. The changes that had occurred to his face were amazing. That once hard and stiff expression had made way for a jovial smile and cheerful eyes. “I hope you won’t hold it against me, gentlemen.” He didn’t need to utter a word for their respective guardians to begin freeing the two U.N.C.L.E. agents from their seats. “But you are so…secret. I had to find a way to make sure you really were who you pretended to be!”

Untied first, Illya didn’t shoot him so much as a glance as he walked past him and climbed the set of steps that separated him from Napoleon. He set a hand on his shoulder. His fingers were trembling slightly. “You ok?” Napoleon nodded. “I’m fine.” The American raised an eyebrow in Tate’s direction. “And you couldn’t find something more agreeable?”

Was he answering the question or was he just carrying on with his monologue? Anyway, the latter provided them with extended information. “You see, the only data I had to work with was the well-known fact that you are a couple. Hence that little playacting. An impostor would have attempted to prove myself wrong, using arguments and precise details about a life only them could supposedly know to establish the authenticity of their identities. I would have then killed you without hesitation. But you, Sergej – can I call you Sergej? –, you had only one thing in mind: the life of your partner. That terror in your eyes… Nothing else mattered.”

Napoleon shot him a grin. ‘ _Well done Peril, what a performance!_ ’ could almost be read on his lips. But Illya didn’t feel like smiling. He turned around to look down at Tate from the combined height of his size and the stairs. “You played our life or our dead according to your own psychologic deductions?” Tate ostensibly stepped back under his death glare but quickly pulled himself together.

“Well, hey, you passed the test, right?”

Illya was beginning to shake with rage. He wanted to demolish that disgusting man and his stupid warm smile. What would have happened had he not been convinced by his talking? What if his reactions hadn’t truly satisfied him? All had been left at the appreciation of on single unbalanced guy. His right hand had started to switch. Behind him, Napoleon reached for it and intertwined their fingers. “Peril…” He then waited for their eyes to meet again. “It’s alright Peril, I’m fine.” Illya closed his eyelids and squeezed his fingers in turn. When he opened them again, he felt sufficiently calm to speak to Tate once more.

“You won’t touch him again. Ever.”

“That was not part of the plan, don’t worry! Now that I don’t have any reason to doubt you, you don’t have any reasons to fear me either.  We can seriously get to work on a sound basis.”

In spite of the smile that never left his face, something in Tate’s attitude –his hasty tone maybe – showed that their new ‘boss’ had received the warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of First chapter, two more to go. As you may have noticed, English is not my first language... I did the best I could, hoping it doesn't sound too bad/incomprehensible. Please tell me if something feels wrong/really odd!! (or if you want to apply as a BETA:D)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes chapter 2 :) Thanks too all that have read/commented/kudo-ed/bookmarked/suscribed:DDD
> 
> (this is the chapter where there is "no actual smut" but still "some moves", just so you know)

 

Their second day in the bubble was extraordinarily peaceful compared to the first. ‘Serious business’ would not begin before the day after and those few hours were dedicated to the visit of the place and the familiarization with its facilities.

The previous evening, their bedroom had been the first subject to their appreciation.  A double bed one, of course. It was big, round, and equipped with a thick mattress. The sheets, the cushions, the deep carpet on the ground and even the flat panels were a harmonious palette of greens. The transparent structure of the bubble constituted the biggest and the most imposing portion of wall. A closer analysis revealed it to be made of different slabs assembled together with absolute precision. At a distance of 1 meter, it became impossible to perceive their contours. Their composition was difficult to establish: glass or plastic, there was no way to be sure. Their quarters were complete with the adjunction of a personal communicating bathroom. No curtain was there to isolate them from the outside world but the aquatic fauna couldn’t really be assimilated to an indiscreet audience.

In the morning, they discovered the rest of the base. The bubble was in fact divided in strata, or floors. The biggest platform, in the middle, served as ‘ground floor’. A wide room full of computers and other multi-buttoned machines was taking up much of the space, the rest being filled with some offices and reunion rooms – their ‘trial’ had been held in one of those. It was also the level where the elevator was accessible.

Two different stairs allowed access to the upper floor: the one of the staff’s dormitory and the mess. About twenty people lived there on a daily basis. As Ilya and Napoleon noticed, most of the rooms were located on the borders of the platforms, so to let everyone admire the oceanic scenery. That first floor however comprised a central room, entirely isolated, where Sergej Serafin would be working on his defusing operations.

The second floor was reserved to Tate and his important guests. Half of it housed the magnate’s personal quarters, the other half three guestrooms. They didn’t get the chance to visit each of them and had to take their host’s word for it when he assured they had been given the best one.

They did not visit the third and last level either: a reception room where they were expected the very evening. Suspense had to be preserved.

The lower part of the bubble comprised only two levels. One gathered all the machinery vital to the base’s functioning, as well as reserves of air, freshwater and food. The agents had not been imposed any restrictions on those resources’ utilization and they wondered it the same rule applied to the rest of the staff. The other consisted of one vast shed, equipped with basins that communicated with the ocean. Two submarines were moored there, none of which being the one that had debarked them sooner. Similar in size and design, they demonstrated that their transport could have easily berthed there too. But that, of course, wouldn’t have served Tate’s plans very well.  The crude appearance of the place indicated that the upper entrance, more impressive, should also welcome ‘ordinary’ visitors.  The form of acceptance was then more pleasant, it was to be hoped.

Anyway, the existence of an alternative exit was useful information.

They had lunch in their quarters. Bread, fruits and fish fillet, the same meal that was served in the mess, but elegantly arranged on a small circular table. Their host had to think they’d prefer to enjoy some intimacy. Still, in reality, they could not indulge to be themselves; U.N.C.L.E. had warned them that every underwater room was to be considered ‘trapped’, meaning full of microphones and cameras. A meticulous search wouldn’t have changed a thing: even if they had managed to spot all the devices, those had probably been incorporated in the structure from its conception, making them a priori unremovable. Plus, it would be better to avoid any suspicious behavior.

Napoleon Niles Cooper received an afternoon off, whereas Illya was invited to join the isolated room, the “confinement chamber” that would be his workplace, to check his equipment.

 The codes for the satellites their employer coveted were about to be rebooted. The confidential protocols were locked up in a small briefcase, itself confined in the personal strong-box of an American army colonel. Napoleon, accomplished housebreaker, would be charged to retrieve it discreetly and substitute a copy for the original – no one was to suspect the exchange. Then it would be Illya’s job, as a bomb-disposal expert, to open it. A sophisticated mechanism theoretically made any intrusion impossible. A complex explosive charge was set to destroy the contained documents if anyone tried to open it without the matching key.  Sergej Serafin possessed the required skills to neutralize the device and leave the briefcase intact. The protocols would be analyzed, modified, and then put back in the luggage, that would resume its place in Washington, where the copy would have been sent in the meantime. The American army would then enter itself the corrupted data in their systems.

At least, that was what Tate and his men believed. In reality, the briefcase would never hold any authentic code, and the explosive device had been conceived so that Illya, who was not an actual professional in bomb disposal, would be able to open it with ease. U.N.C.L.E. and its ‘associates’ hoped to foil the accomplice from Washington when he’d proceed to switch the briefcases again.

The room was a small (well, not that small since the tall Russian could perfectly stand in it), grey rectangle with no furniture. The heavy door opened outwards and could be locked from both sides with the help of a wheel and a metal bar. The naked, thick walls seemed extraordinarily dense and should considerably weight the station down. All those precautions made Illya smile despite himself. Did their host realize how tiny the bomb was? And that is was designed to only damage the briefcase content? But then he reconsidered: this may not be the first explosive device to get into the station.

He headed for the back of the room, where two toolboxes lined up against the wall. The smaller one was his. It contained Sergej’s favorite material; the tools he was attached to and he refused to work without: cobbled hooks, customized pliers,… Everything had been sanded to make it look older.  The content had been rummaged through but nothing was missing.

The rest of the material had been provided by Tate, who had insisted for them to travel as discreetly as can be (which, according to him, meant with as little luggage as possible). He sat on the ground and began a meticulous inspection of every item, making sure they were in good condition and that every object written on the list he had been asked was there. He took on the occasion to rememorize the name of each utensil as well as its applications. Pliers of every kind, screwdrivers of every size, connectors, retractors, chisels, adhesive, probes, cables, various thickness of insulating material… Illya took his time and examined it all with an appreciative eye, hoping he was satisfying the camera. This was a play he may actually come to like.

Surreptitiously, he still managed to slip a minuscule blade inside his sleeve. Because one can never be too careful.

 ---

  


The day went by slowly and, finally, came 6 P.M.  The time they had been asked to join their host for supper.

In their bedroom, a wardrobe had revealed itself filled with suits and other coloured clothes. Begrudgingly, Illya had admitted it would be appropriate to put on one of them. He had however stepped away from the more colorful ones to fall back on a white shirt, navy blue pants and a sky-blue vest. A steel blue tie completed his looks.  He was remaining relatively sober in comparison to Napoleon, his warm brown vest, burgundy pants and bright red tie. Larry had asked them for their measurements on the day they first met. Surprised, they had complied, thinking it may have been a technique to verify their identities. One they had no way to cheat with. Suddenly, they understood the motives behind the request. The suits were perfectly fitted.

Before that evening, they had not been granted access to the upper level of the bubble. A trapdoor at the top of the stairs had even been blocking the way. It was now fully open and they took it as an invitation to climb in.

The room in which they emerged was altogether immense and incredibly stripped. Perfectly circular, it didn’t contain anything but one long black table and its chairs at the center. Those appeared ridiculously disproportionate in relation to the vastness of the empty space. But the most extraordinary was the transparent dome that served as both wall and roof.

The water was surrounding them completely and subdued the last rays of sunlight, providing them with a strange, moving light. Colorful fishes undulated gracefully with the waves, alone or in a shoal.

Tate was there too, waiting for them. Always with that big, apparently good-natured smile, that never missed to irritate the Russian. After a welcoming handshake, he went to sit at one end of the table, inviting them to take place in turn, each on one side. Without him having to give any orders, a waiter, dressed entirely in white, entered the room as soon as they had seated. He presented a bottle of red wine then proceeded to pour each of them a glass with much application. After having taken a first sip, and as the waiter was walking away, Tate started to speak again.

“So, gentlemen, what do you think of my Coordination Base?”

Napoleon was the first to answer, much to Illya’s gratefulness. “Very impressive, to tell you the truth. From a professional perspective, it would represent an interesting challenge…”

“You would be disappointed: there is absolutely nothing to steal. Life-support systems take over all the space. But I do not mind it. What could I possibly expose to rival that scenery?” With his hand, he gestured at the dome. “But you do have a point; the isolation provided by the ocean his worth any security system. There is no way to get in or out unnoticed!”

“A fantastic scenery, I have to admit. And constantly renewed. But isn’t that seclusion weighing on you from time to time?”

“I feel home here, more than on the island, more than anywhere else. Here, underwater, I can feel myself breathing!”

They went on prattling as a new waiter made his appearance and brought the first course (puff pastry with white cheese). Chatting about his base was for Tate like chatting about the weather: small-talk to break the ice. Still you could feel the pride he took in it. He only turned towards Illya once his fork lay in the center of his plate.

“And what about you Sergej, what’s your opinion?”

“The base is ok,” he said, and he stuck to that. If Tate wanted to continue on the subject, he’d have to do it with Napoleon. He had conversation.

“And the tools we’ve supplied? Are those to your liking?”

“Tools are ok too. Functional.”

“My dear Sergej,” Tate was looking at him seriously. “I feel like you’re somehow still angry with me about last night’s incident…”

Both waiters were back. One was clearing the table while the other replaced the empty plates with chicken Colombo and pineapple tartare, before serving them another glass of wine.

“Well, you tried to kill my partner in front of me, so.”

“You are mistaken; it never was my intention to kill your partner. I was ready to kill a man pretending to be your partner, which is totally different.  And if it may reassure you, know that Georges would never have pulled the trigger before hearing the word ‘shoot’. He had orders.”

Illya only grunted for an answer. It may lead him to be frowned upon by their employer, but to the Russian, it seemed rather in character. Waverly had told them to use their imagination, so he was imagining Sergej Serafin to be a resentful kind of guy.

Tate sighed with contrition. “Try to relax, follow your friend Niles’ example. And please, honor my meal!” He followed his own advice, soon imitated by his guests.

It was Napoleon that rekindled the conversation. “Would it be impolite to ask for details about tomorrow’s operation? I already know my departure is scheduled for the middle of the day…”

“Not at all, it is only natural. You will leave at 12 P.M. exactly, with one of the submarines from the shed. And you’ll only be back the next day, in the evening. Of course, you’ll be given time to say your goodbyes before jumping on board.” He stared at the agents, one after the other. “Would it be indiscreet to ask for how long you’ve been ‘working’ together?”

“Oh, quite some time…,” smiled Napoleon. An evasive answer that satisfied Illya and prevented him from stressing how indiscreet the question was indeed. Tate didn’t appear offended but uttered another sad sigh.

“I understand your reluctance. But your distrust is misplaced. All I’m asking for is a bit of frankness and getting to know you better. Do you realize we are about to take part in an amazing adventure together? Do you understand what our combined actions will make possible?” He paused for a moment, whether he was relishing his dramatic effect or actually waiting for an answer. It was obvious he was plenty satisfied with his plan and greatly enjoying the opportunity he was given to explain it. Since the meal had started, he hadn’t taken any precautions to speak in front of his men, and it was reasonable to think that everyone in the base was in the know. He took his time, interrupting himself to eat or contemplate the future. He demonstrated to them how the codes they were about to steal would grant him a stranglehold on international politics. How he would be able to simulate a Russian attack against the US at any given moment, terrorizing both the Americans and the Soviets, who would live in fear of reprisal. How easily he would be able to provoke an open war or demand power or money not to. In short, how one man, followed by a small number of accomplices, would make the world kneel before him. Nothing really new for them.

Somewhere in the middle of his speech, the dessert was served. Mango sorbet. In those warm waters, the production of such a dish should require an important amount of energy. Illya saw that as another demonstration from their host. The man was decidedly very conceited. He would be surprised.

“You will pay us?” he asked when the other was done. They were mercenaries; ‘Sergej’ wanted to remind him of that.

“Of course I’ll pay you!” he replied vehemently. “Have I not honored my debts up to now? But realize you and I are going to participate in an exploit!”

Napoleon smiled and raised his glass. Around them, the waters had darkened with the sunset. Spotlights had lit and illuminated the depths. “To our exploit then!” Tate joyously repeated the words: “To our exploit!” And Illya could only join in the toast.

 ---

 

Back in their room, Illya wished they had lingered at the table for a bit longer. But they couldn’t have spent the entire night in the reception room. They had thanked their host for the meal, taken their leave, and now they were ‘alone’.

He had no reason to be nervous; they had anticipated and prepared this moment. Besides, ‘nervous’ was not the right word. Maybe…ill at ease sounded better?

They had held themselves back on the first night. Exhaustion from the travel – combined the unusual identification procedure – justified it: it was easy to imagine them drained of all energy.  But this night, after a good meal and a few glasses of wine, a bit more action would be expected out of them…

Immobile in the middle of the room, Illya pondered the best tactic to adopt. Should they first go to the bathroom, in order to get ready, or simply throw themselves at each other in a surge of passion? Napoleon solved his dilemma.

“So? Are you going to stand there?”  Three feet away, he was watching him with an expression he had already seen him sport during missions. An expression of perfectly mannered seduction.

Alright, in that case, it was no time to dither anymore. He walked decidedly towards his partner and stopped right in front of him, leaving only centimeters between them. His mouth first headed for his lips, then deviated at the last moment to come and plant itself on his neck, just above the shoulder. As Napoleon tilted his head back and let out a approving groan, he slowly traced the warm skin from the clavicle to the jaw and all the way back, until the brown collar of the vest became an inconvenience. Without ever breaking contact, he slid his hands underneath the fabric and pushed it over his partner’s shoulders. It was to first piece of clothes to reach the floor.

In the meantime, Napoleon had attacked the buttons of his shirt, starting at chest-level rather than at the top. Illya shuddered when his fingers slipped through the opening and lightly traced his abs line. This was stupid. He had seen it coming and had no reason to be surprised! He turned his attention to Napoleon’s shirt and soon made it join the vest on the ground. He then straightened up to take his own vest off and led them to the bed, grabbing a bottle of lube from the bedside table on the way.

Jumping on the bed, he was careful to slide his feet underneath the covers; that would be important for what lay ahead of them. Napoleon made him laugh by delicately removing his socks but almost ripping off his pants before joining him. He hoped the laugh did not sound tense. The American positioned himself on top of him, one leg on each of his sides, and contemplated for a moment his open shirt. The tip of his fingers skimmed over the garment, unbuttoning the remaining fasteners on their way down. He finally reached the fly that was dealt with in the same way and, thereupon, moved away to grab the covers and pull them over their heads.  Illya took the opportunity to gulp some air. His heart was beating too fast and he was trembling. This was not supposed to be that hard. But it would soon be over. All he had left to do was get rid of his pants, then of his underpants, and, when their underwear would emerge outside the sheets, they’d move the covers in a studied manner that would create the impression of an ongoing intercourse. An act considered sufficient by U.N.C.L.E., that didn’t ask for more. But that was already a lot. Illya vaguely had the thought that he could not keep doing it every day.

He got a grip on himself, lifted his pelvis so to lower his pants and froze. His crotch had connected with Napoleon’s and a wave that was altogether ice cold and burning spread through his body to come dying in his mouth with a strangled noise. He was not anymore able to conceive how to move. Reflections confusedly crossed his mind. It was normal, normal, a mechanical response to friction. His erection too was normal, and Napoléon would not blame him for it – he may even have gotten one himself, he had been careful not to look! Then their eyes met and Napoleon’s hand came to rest on his cheek, and he felt himself falter…

And everything stopped.

Suffocated, he stayed lying in bed, trying to compute what had just happened. Napoleon had suddenly got up, making the covers fall down, and had walked away.

As quickly as possible, he caught his breath, put his pants back on, and followed him.

“N…Niles?” No answers. He approached him closer. “You ok?”

“I can’t.”

“What?”

“I…I’m sorry, I can’t.” His voice was hoarse and his breathing short as well. There was something desperate in his gaze when he turned to face him and Illya felt his heart clench. “I can’t Sergej, not with the cameras!”

That was a valid explanation. Cooper and Serafin were not beginners and, for all they knew, not imbeciles. They would have suspected they were being watched and that could have altered their behavior. That was not the scenario they had prepared – more difficult to play convincingly – but they were getting by quite fine, and it would certainly do the trick. Illya was not absolutely sure what had motivated his choice, but, finally, it was rather a relief.

“It’s ok, it’s fine.” He placed his hands on his partner’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Hey, it’s fine, don’t worry. We can refrain ourselves for two weeks, right?” He tried to accompany his remark with a small smile.  Eventually, Napoleon smiled back at him sadly. He nodded his head.

“I…am going to change,” he announced, as a conclusion, and he headed for the bathroom. Their nightclothes, daily provided to them, were hanging in the bedroom, but the door had closed before Illya could think of reminding him. He used his time alone to change as well, in front of the glass wall as he had taken the habit, then picked up the covers and went to bed.

Napoleon appeared a few moments later, wearing a bath robe. He climbed in bed and sighed while cautiously setting his head in the crook of Illya’s shoulder.

Good. Tate should not believe them to be on bad terms after all. He put his cheek down on his hair and attempted to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was the chapter where Illya and Napoleon attempt to fake sex...and fail (hope it doesn't get anyone frustrated sorry...)
> 
> Illya is trying not to ask himself qestions (it's the mission it's normal they're just doing the mission, you know) while Napoleon somehow realise he enjoys it too much and feels like it isn't fair...
> 
> Once again, I hope my English was not too terrible (don't hesitate to tell me if you spot any mistake/unnatural structures;) and see you next chapter:)


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon had left at 12:00 P.M., exactly as planned. Precisely, it was the hatch of the submersible that had been closed at that time. Tate had insisted.

They got to the shed 20 minutes prior to departure; in compliance with the message they had been delivered. It was more than enough to proceed to check up and “give those dear Niles and Sergej time to say goodbye”. Tate had specified with a wink that no one would be watching. A remark Illya had found especially inopportune. Was it a coincidence or a reference to last night’s events?

“See you tomorrow night, Peril,” had stated Napoleon, a wide grin on his face. They hadn’t seen any counter-arguments to using their nicknames. It only showed they were used to working together.

“Have fun, Cowboy,” he had replied. The American was enjoying this kind of illegal activities way too much.

“I intend to!”

He had then moved closer to kiss him and Illya had played along. That was what everyone was expecting.

Napoleon was a good kisser; that he could objectively tell. Still he had hated it. It had been so…artificial. As soon as he had judged it reasonable, he had stepped away.

The Russian had then watched them cast off with mixed emotions. The mission was not risk-free. Apart from Tate’s men, Napoleon would have to be wary of the colonel whose house he was about to break into. The mission they were carrying out was confidential one and only a few people had been let into the secret. But he still felt some kind of relief, knowing he was outside, away from that bubble, its isolation and its unpleasant owner. Their employer would indeed not be part of the field detachment.

Now Illya was alone. He had never minded it in is job but, lastly, he had become accustomed to the American’s presence. And to Gaby’s. It was of some comfort, knowing her up close, having their backs from a nearby island, even though the situation did not allow for rapid intervention. She was quick, efficient and resourceful.  Same qualifying adjectives could apply to Napoleon, although it initially had pained him to admit it.

He was also completely idle. Tate had the courtesy not to impose on him, but he was given absolutely nothing to do, except for eating and sleeping, and he didn’t really see how to occupy himself in such a cramped space. He hung around for a while, seemingly aimlessly, and registered as much information about the base’s internal organization as he could.

It could effectively accommodate twenty or so people. Nearly half of them were working on computers in the main platform, probably preparing the falsification of the codes. Others, holding pistols or machine guns, secured the area. Illya counted six of them: two were assigned to the shed, two others to the elevator.  A third man, unarmed, was wearing a key around his neck and looked well aware of his mission’s importance. Every time Illya got to observe him, he found him in the exact same position, not a single of his muscles seeming to have moved. Two or three times, he also crossed path with technicians, very busy with maintenance issues.

Everybody worked in accordance with a precise timetable, receiving the permission to go back to the surface every two or three days, to walk around on the island or to socialize with the staff from the yellow house. Twice, Illya got the opportunity to witness a group going outside.  A very strict procedure surrounded those events and the man with the key, in spite of the fact that he obviously knew the face of every staff member, demanded to see their ID and their authorization cards before allowing them access. He subsequently accompanied them in the elevator to open the surface door and came back down alone. The smiles on the employees’ faces showed those ‘permissions’ were considered pleasant. The conversations he overheard taught him that contacts with the wider world were on the contrary pretty rare. The moral was good and the personnel seemed confident.

Illya was relatively surprised at how much ‘freedom’ he was given.  He was never told to leave and no one asked him any questions (he did not push his luck by stepping too close to the elevator though). Apparently, his curiosity was perceived as natural. But still, he could not spend his entire days spying on his surroundings; it would inevitably end up irritating people.

So he spent an excessive amount of time alone in his bedroom, contemplating the ocean. An interesting spectacle, of course, but he still regretted not having a chessboard at disposal. On a little shelf, he discovered an assortment of books he tried to get interested in. They dealt with scuba diving, the Bahamas or tropical fishes. By the end of the second day, Illya could name and identify thirty of them (as well as give report of the exact number and frequency of their apparitions behind his ‘window’).

 ---

 

‘The next day, in the evening’ actually meant shortly before midnight.  The submarine emerged in the shed and the crew climbed out. Napoleon was proudly spotting the briefcase. Obviously, everything went well.

He handed it directly to him in a theatrical motion, referring to it as a “little gift”. Illya snorted, half-irritated, half-amused.

“Offering me a bomb? How romantic.”

Napoleon had shrugged, gesturing at the rest of the team. “Blame them. They wouldn’t let me touch anything. Not even a rose from the path.”

Tate, who assisted to the disembarkment too, gave him an apologetic smile. In his violet ensemble, he evoked an exotic fish to Illya. “This wouldn’t have been careful. It is imperative for our plan that no one suspects your intrusion.” Later, when Napoleon related their excursion, Illya concluded it would be the case. They had demonstrated extreme caution, having directly headed for the room that held the safety-deposit box. The “colonel’s house”’ was in fact a rather luxurious villa. Its owner, out for the evening, had unfortunately for him put too much faith in his high-tech security system and in his one and only guard – who had proven to be another of their employer’s accomplice. He may not possess an extensive network, but he had for sure a talent when it came to place his acolytes at key posts.

Serafin was invited to put the briefcase in the confinement chamber for the night. Tate was apparently greatly concerned with his health and wanted to be absolutely certain to see him “in good shape” to engage in the “delicate task” that awaited him. It was also a demonstration of trust to the entire staff of the base. Anyone could have taken hold of the object within that period of time. They wouldn’t have gone far, but they still could have seized the opportunity to destroy it. Tate knew how to surround himself – or make himself feared.  Or so he thought.

Illya set to work on the following morning. He played his role flawlessly, manipulation each tool with dexterity and showing himself precise and cautious. As he had been taught, he used the existing seams to access the mechanism without leaving traces. He “neutralized” it with a great deal of talent and was soon able to open the luggage and reveal its content. To complete his intervention, he took the time to restart the engine as the documents were taken away for analysis.

 It was not even noon when he finished. It marked the end of his and Napoleon’s active participation in the project. Cooper and Serafin had fulfilled their contract and the rest did not belong to them. Dedicated teams were going to spend their energy deciphering the protocols and adapting them to their needs. Which didn’t mean they were free to leave.

That didn’t worry them overmuch. It was part of the normal course of events. Tate’s operation was not over, and wouldn’t be before the Americans had the ‘fake’ codes encoded in their own satellites. Once that step executed, they employer wouldn’t mind having the details of his plan leak out. He would think he was in control, and that nothing could take it away from him. It might even turn out to be disadvantageous for him not to comply with a commitment he made to subordinates.  No one would want to work with him anymore.

Still, that left them with absolutely nothing to do and time was passing slowly. Of course, Illya had someone to talk to this time – even though their conversations could not venture in any direction. Only their period of inaction lasted days and not hours. Days during which they never had the occasion to escape their seclusion. Tate trusted them entirely, yet not enough to let them walk around on his island. At least, Illya had the pleasure to amaze his partner with his outstanding knowledge of local aquatic fauna.

And then, nine days later, someone knocked on their bedroom’s door. It was the middle of the afternoon, the day after the false briefcase had been sent to Washington. The exchange should theoretically have happened on the very morning and the military encoding would not be over before the next day at the earliest.

Surprised, Illya went to open, and found himself face to face with someone he’d never thought he’d see again.

“Larry?” The liaison officer was standing right in front of him, with his polite smile and his ordinary suit. He saluted him quickly and the Russian noted he looked tenser than in his memories.

“Mister Serafin,” he began in a stiff tone. His gaze wandered inside the room he then scrutinized avidly. “Is Mister Cooper not there?”

“No, he went to the mess. But he should be back soon…”

“Ah…” Larry seemed overly disappointed, which didn’t fail to unsettle Illya – if not to annoy him. He was not expecting them to spend every minute of their days together, was he? “I, hem, have a message for you.” Illya almost choked when he recognized the handwriting on the crumpled piece of paper he handled him. It was Gaby’s.

So Larry was one of them? He suspected he and Napoleon were not the only ones that had infiltrated the organization – where else would their information have come from?  But he wouldn’t have placed his bets on him. Proof that he knew his job. Proof also that the situation was serious; he wouldn’t have blown his perfect cover otherwise. The few words traced by Gaby confirmed that hypothesis: ‘ _Americans won’t wait. They are bombing. Get out!_ ’

He barely had time to read when two gunshots rang out. With the first one, Larry collapsed, a bullet in his head. The second hit him in the chest and knocked him to the ground. Before he had realized he was falling and before the pain had a chance to kick in, he found himself lying on his back, breathless.

“They got ICB2!!!” a voice roared.

ICB2? That should be Washington’s cell. The CIA had thus completely broken their agreement with U.N.C.L.E. They had not waited for the agents to be exfiltrated to launch their attack on the base nor to apprehend Tate’s accomplices. Did they know one of theirs was still underwater? Now, of course, a ‘lent’ agent was probably not a real agent anymore…

Tate was absolutely furious. He went on screaming while approaching the door, pistol in hand, looking for a better shooting angle. “They got ICB2 and it can only be _your_ fault!”

Rushed footsteps were heard behind him before he got a chance to shoot again. “Illya!”

Napoleon entered his field of vision as Tate was turning over, ready to end him as well. But the American discarded the weapon and the bullet lodged itself in the opposite wall. He then attempted to wrest the pistol from his hands but the task was not easy. Noticeably smaller, Tate was flailing like a madman and turned out to be a pretty good fighter. From inside his sleeve, Illya grabbed the little blade that never left him and threw it to his partner, warning him with a “Cowboy!”.

In a swift motion, Napoleon caught it in mi-air and planted it in Tate’s right hand, forcing him to let go of the weapon he managed to retrieve in the process. He then dealt him a blow on the head, stepped over his body and came to kneel beside Illya. His eyes fell upon the blood stain and his lips clenched. He got up almost immediately to head for the wardrobe, pulled a salmon pink scarf from it and came back to press the rolled up piece of cloth on the wound. “It’s gonna be alright Peril,” he said in a blank tone.

But everything was not alright. Illya opened his fist to show him Gaby’s note, still in his palm. “We must…leave…” Time was running out. “The lift…” In spite of his aversion to the transparent cylinder, it stayed their best option. They just had to hope some kind of speedboat – maybe one used by Larry – was moored at the pier. It would be easier to manoeuver than a submarine, whose entire crew they’d have to keep a close watch on. But to pass the security checks, they were going to need a hostage.

Napoleon seemed to have come to the same conclusion because he stood up slowly, visibly reluctant to let go of the scarf. “Can you maintain the pressure?” he finally asked, and Illya nodded yes. He went back to Tate and shook him until he was more or less awake, after which he proceeded to put him on his feet, fasten his hands behind his back using his own tie, and left him there, back facing the room, with the advice not to move or emit a single sound.

Back at Illya’s side, he squatted down and offered him a hand. “Can you stand?” Once again, the Russian nodded. He’d have to. He reached out for the outstretched hand, raised his torso, and an explosion of pain nearly threw him backwards. Refusing to admit defeat, he strengthened his grip and tried to grit his teeth, only to be thwarted by a bout of coughing, every jolt accentuating the throbbing. He somehow managed to calm himself down and stand upright, helped by the American, who did not wait for his opinion to slide an arm under his left shoulder. The manifest pain in his eyes was hard to take and Illya decided not to stare at him.

They set off as best as they could, Illya leaning on Napoleon who was pressing the pistol against Tate’s back with his free hand, and drew away from the body of Larry, brandy-lover they’d never get to know better.

Illya succeeded in keeping a good walking pace but was having a hard time catching his breath. Descending stairs was an ordeal. He suspected the right lung had been hit and was beginning to collapse. Tate was being cooperative in that he had no intention to die. He was kind enough to calm down his men’s aggressive tendencies by ordering them to “let go of your weapons” and “do everything they ask”.

They were approaching the elevator and, for a moment, Illya almost believed they’d make it. That’s when a tremendous impact shook the entire base and a gush of water burst forth; the bombing had begun. He was submerged in a matter of seconds and lost contact with both the ground and his partner. He felt himself being swept away, basically unable to resist. The current was too strong, each movement painful and he was swallowing water. Then a hand closed on his arm and he stopped spinning.

Napoleon had managed to take hold of the stairs’ handrail, at the back of the room, and to catch him as he passed. With both his hands busy, he was now in a tricky situation. He had curled one leg around a bar for stability and was using his energy to bring Illya closer to the handle. The latter decided to do all he could to help him.  He was not completely out of adrenaline yet! He kicked and struggled until, without really knowing how, he ended up on the upper level’s floor.

He spat out water and the coughing started again. He could only take in small, shaky gulps of air. As soon as he was able to talk he searched for his partner’s eyes. “My chamber…,” he breathed out. He knew Napoleon had understood when he saw them light up.

The American picked him up without losing time –they had none, the ocean had entirely flooded the main room and the flow was so strong it was already surging higher – and dragged him into the confinement chamber.

Airtight and reinforced, it would be the only room able to preserve their oxygen until…until Gaby had found a way to send them a rescue team. It was always open and no one had arrived ahead of them. Salty water had begun to seep through the door. Napoleon laid him on the floor and went to close it, locking it with the metal bar, then came back to examine the wound.

He bent over and droplets fell from his hair. He was soaked. And so was Illya. It brought back a memory. Their first mission together.

“You always…get me off water…”

Napoleon looked surprised, but he seemed to understand the reference.

“Well…you did not want to see me die either…”

“No…”

The dark stain had been diluted on the soggy shirt but the bleeding kept going on. The scarf was gone, carried away by the current, and nothing was restraining it anymore. Napoleon opened the buttons and moved the bottle-green fabric aside – with as much gentleness as in the bedroom thought Illya incongruously, but faster and with more determination. The lesion appeared, sore and bright red. Besides the running liquid, it was spurting reddish little bubbles that inspired Illya a grimace. The American made no comments. He grabbed his partner’s hand and placed it on the wound, so to apply a minimum of pressure, and went to rummage in the tool boxes. “Is there something in there we can use?” he asked on the off chance. Illya was beginning to have difficulties thinking. “Adhesive,” he finally remembered.

He was back quickly with a large duct tape and the biggest torch he could find. A good initiative. With the bombing going on, the electricity would trip out sooner or later.

He rolled out the tape and cut off a length of adhesive he plastered on the Russian’s skin, to keep the blood from seeping out as well as to prevent the air from entering. The red liquid was already filling the pleural cavity fast enough; there was no need to add on oxygen. Then he proceeded to raise his upper body, certainly in order to clear his airway as much as possible. It was logical and Illya let him lift his head and place it in his lap. Their faces were close and, again, that was normal. Napoleon had no other option than to lean over to make sure he was correctly positioned. But, for a moment, their eyes had met, and Illya had been certain he would lean closer… For a split second, he could even have sworn he had. But it had only been millimeters, and he had backed away instantly.

He was too tired not to ask. “…Were you…gonna kiss me…?” Napoleon turned away but could not resolve to lie. It still took him several seconds to let the truth out. “…yes,” he finally conceded.

“…Do it…” Napoleon stared at him but Illya starred back. He was serious.

“There are no more cameras…,” pointed the American.

“Exactly…”

He found nothing to object to this. His face leaned down, very slowly, as if he was expecting to be stopped at any moment.  But Illya did not react before their lips had joined and he was answering the kiss. One that was _true_.

Napoleon drew back rapidly – it was no time to deprive his partner of oxygen. There was blood on his lips and his breath was short too.

“Since when?” he simply asked.  Illya raised his brows.

Since when had he realized? Since when had he known he knew? “…don’t know…,” he mumbled. “…now…” He was not really sure. “…longer…?” A wave of concern stiffened Napoleon’s features.

“Hey, you stay with me Peril, right?” Illya blinked, trying to fight the growing confusion.

“…right.”

On the outside, shockwaves could still be heard, and, intermittently, the chamber was shaking. After some time, it inclined on one side, then on the other, and finally came to a standstill with a loud thud. In all likelihood, it had freed itself from the destroyed structure and had sunk to the bottom of the cove. Stabilized on the uneven seabed, it remained askew. Which was not so bad. Therefore, the infiltrated water could at least accumulate in a single corner. He was not feeling it anymore, but it must have been cold for Napoleon. The American had not let go of him, preventing him from rolling back and forth. He had also never stopped talking to him, about everything and nothing, and making sure, every once in a while, that he was still responding.

Illya was trying to slow down his heart rate, in hopes of limiting the blood effusion. Little by little, his rapid breathing became ragged and erratic, and the slight shivers that had taken hold of his body had soothed and vanished. Napoleon’s voice had faded into an indistinct flow of words, but it was pleasant, and Illya clung to their melody.

He couldn’t have told how much time had passed when he realized their shelter was moving again. Metallic noises rang out and light invaded the room, blinding after the semi-darkness. He identified the sound of a helicopter and the tone of Gaby among other voices. Of course she had found a way. A stretcher appeared by his side, ready to take him away. His gaze fell on his partner, who had not left yet. He looked sad. Anxious. Illya opened his mouth and managed to utter a few words. A promise.

“...I’ll…live…”

 ---

 

When he awoke, Napoleon was there. He was sitting in one of those hospital chairs, next to his bed, and smiled at him silently, obviously happy to see him open his eyes. Illya was the first to break the silence, his voice a bit hoarse, but with confidence.

“Told you.”

Napoleon muffled a laugh. “Hello Peril.” He stretched his arm and reached for his partner’s hand, lying on the covers, grabbing it gently. Illya squeezed his in turn. “I feared you wouldn’t remember…,” the American admitted after a while.

“Russian agents have a special training to exercise memory,” informed Illya.

“I see.” He shot him a wry smile. “So I have a good reason to thank the KGB…”

 ---

 

On the other side of the glass door, Gaby was observing them with amusement. ‘ _And U.N.C.L.E. agents should train to be a bit more discreet,_ ’ she thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaa, the end! Thanks for reading and hope you liked it:)
> 
> So, just to clarify, Napoleon had identified his own feelings before the beginning of the fic. It pained him to play that role, because it was like a reminder of what he couldn't have (but he's good at hiding it all behind a smile, you know). He could also attribute every one of Illya's actions that could reveal he actually cares/loves him to the playact (because, why would anything this good happen to him and he sould know better than to hope...)
> 
> Illya had somehow inconciously acknowledged his feelings but hadn't actually realised he had them (hence that frustration and 'irrationnal' anger towards the mission). So when Napoleon asks him "since when?", it is not only the blood loss that makes him hesitate. Was it since that moment he realised he wanted him to kiss him? Since Tate's test? Since he gave him back his father's watch? It's like he had always knew without actually knowing it (if this makes senses^^).
> 
> Also I am absolutely sorry for the lack of Gaby! She's awesome and I wanted more of her but without having it really planned, I ended up kind of following Ilya's POV, so I thought it would have been strange to suddenly 'get out of the bubble' to see what Gaby/Napoleon were doing outside...
> 
> Once again I hope my english is ok and thanks for every comments/kudos/hits and all I've recieved<3


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